


Hide Not Thy Poison

by Avelera



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Bondage, Chains, Dark, Dark Thranduil, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Hallucinations, Imprisonment, M/M, Mirkwood, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychological Torture, Psychotropic Drugs, Rape/Non-con Elements, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:47:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this alternate take on the Mirkwood dungeons, Thorin is captured alone and subjected to interrogation by the Elvenking, who believes the dwarves have come as assassins to fulfill Thorin's well-known vendetta against Thranduil.</p><p>In order to gain the truth from him, Thranduil allows Thorin to believe he is the only survivor of the party, and subjects the company's leader to drugs and psychological games that bring Thorin face to face with the darkest part of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pherede](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/gifts), [sevenums](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenums/gifts).



> So finally, after months of delay, I am posting the first chapters of my story for the Hobbit Big Bang. A few shout outs are in order!
> 
> Special thanks to KivrinEngle, for giving me the idea to use Shakespeare as a source of inspiration for the title. I doubt she will ever read this piece, but I owe her thanks nonetheless. 
> 
> Thanks are also due to Pherede for her fic "A Curious Mind" which was in part the inspiration for this story, with all that entails.
> 
> A shout-out should also go to my beta Kailthia, as well as the good people of Tumblr who stopped by this fic and contributed their beta work.
> 
> Final and greatest thanks go to Sevenums, who created beautiful art for this story as part of The Hobbit Big Bang. The art will be linked and included where it is applicable within the story, in about the last chapter for those of you keeping track.
> 
> This story was written in large part before the release of The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug and therefore follows the events of the books, in that Thorin is captured first and alone. In any case, it can be considered a darker take on what could happened in the depths of Thranduil's palace. Please heed all warnings, and enjoy.

Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words;  
Lay not thy hands on me; forbear, I say;  
Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting.  
Thou baleful messenger, out of my sight!  
Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny  
Sits in grim majesty, to fright the world.  
Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding:  
Yet do not go away: come, basilisk,  
And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight;  
For in the shade of death I shall find joy;

Henry VI, by William Shakespeare

* * *

 The cell is lit by torches outside of the barred door, and is clean swept and dry. There is a pallet by the wall where his chains are anchored, and food brought in at regular hours. Slowly, Thorin begins to recover his strength, all the while studying the door, the links of the chains, and the bolts that fastened them to the wall.

In all his studies, he realizes only one thing: he lacks the tools for his own escape. He recognizes good steel when he sees it, knows the extent of his own strength, knows that it would take a cave troll to rip his chains from the wall, and the door from its hinges. He is alone, in some dungeon in the depths of Thranduil’s palace, at the end of a long and winding corridor. Even if the Company should somehow infiltrate the palace to rescue him, they would surely be seen before they made it this far.

When the elves first brought him here it was with a sackcloth thrown over his head, down for what felt like miles. The ground had twisted and turned beneath his feet, such that by the time they reached his cell he could not even begin to retrace his steps from memory. The elves that brought him there were impossibly strong, but not rough, and somehow that made it worse. He was dragged as if by iron bonds, and when he tried to drag his captors to the ground, and make some attempt at grappling his way free, they had simply lifted him, as if he weighed no more than a child.

A day passes before Thranduil comes to see him, soft shoes padding silent along the carven hallway. He is flanked by two elves with dark hair and there is something in his hand, a tanned leather pouch drawn tight with a drawstring. Thorin has a moment to study it, unable to divine its purpose as they take out the keys to enter his cell. Fed and rested, he is able to assess Thranduil calmly. Hunger and exhaustion had driven him to the edge, and now a more level head would be needed. There is no Company here, and he feels unbalanced at their loss, unaware of how steadying their influence is until it is gone. He can manage this, though. He can play whatever games Thranduil requires if means freedom from this place.

Thranduil stops in front of him, regards him, bending low in an exaggerated movement that seems designed to remind Thorin of his height. Thorin watches him back, his expression stony. He opens his mouth, prepares to give Thranduil a polite but scathing welcome. 

Thranduil's hand appears before him, held flat. On it there is a pile of yellow dust that he holds in an open palm before his lips. Thorin’s brow furrows, and he has only a moment to see it before Thranduil puffs, once, and the dust scatters.

Thorin inhales with a short, startled gasp. Yellow powder hangs in the air in front of him and he starts, sneezes and jerks away. Whatever the substance is, it hangs in the air, and has the herbal scent of pollen. It tastes, oddly, of tealeaves, and coats the inside of his throat. He coughs as it sticks there like flour and swallows before he can think better of it,. His saliva turns the powder to a thin coat of mud painting the inside of his throat. Tears spring to his eyes as he hacks, works his throat and spits as much of the stuff from his mouth as he can. Thranduil does not stop him, does not even blink as Thorin snorts and spits again, a yellow gob of pollen and saliva hitting the floor. He knows he has not got it all, not by half. Still it coats the inside of his nose, tongue, and lips.

Thorin’s hands are bound at the wrist, but he manages to turn his head and wipe his face against the shoulder of his tunic, all the while glaring at Thranduil with every ounce of his fury. He works up more saliva and spits out what is left of the stuff, but whatever the pollen was, it has begun to work its devilry. It is moving down his throat, burning its way there like a drought of whiskey. It pools in his stomach, suffusing his limbs with a heat that is burning away some of the pain and tension from the rough treatment, the many days of travel and starvation in the woods. He may still have time. With some effort and concentration, he may be able to vomit the stuff up before it finished its work...

“Don’t,” says Thranduil.

Thorin relaxes instantly, and falls against the bonds. Calm courses through his neck and shoulders like the spread of a warm balm, but it is wrong, terribly wrong.

“What have you done to me?” Thorin whispers. He tries to constrict his muscles, to gag the last of the pollen away but his body refuses to obey him. No, more than his body. His mind as well, for the thought slips through it like a fish, eluding his grasp. He cannot seize upon it but perhaps he no longer needs to force himself to be sick, because the golden glow in his stomach is turning to the leaden weight of dread. “What have you _done_?”

“Calm yourself, son of Thráin,” Thranduil says idly, and straightens. Thorin feels his panic slipping away even as he is aware that it should have doubled. Thranduil dusts the last of the yellow powder off his fingertips, where he had been concealing it, and clasps his hands behind him. “It is merely the distilled pollen of a certain plant, it will not harm you. But I have grown tired of your evasions, and this should speed your answers.”

Thranduil’s face seems to wavers as he speaks, and a faint trail, an afterimage, follows the movement of his hands and body. Thorin blinks, the world shifting behind his eyelids, as the split-second moment seems to stretch. He exhales and his breath echoes. “What is it doing to me?” he says, his voice sounds thick in his ears. The tension is leaving his jaw as his face begins to feel numb.

“Nothing excessive, it is a weak potion. I have observed its effect in my people as no stronger than that of a bottle of wine, so long as you do not resist its effects. I have no wish to harm you, but I require your cooperation, and this should place you in the proper frame of mind.” Thranduil stopped, his figure wavering like a mirage, white against the black stone of the cell. “I have news of your companions.”

Thorin shoots forward, or tries to, but falls hard against the bonds and the world spins as if he’s been struck in the face with a club. The burn of the pollen is increasing, filling his entire body as if with fire. The first prickle of sweat chills his forehead. The space between each breath stretched in an ever-wider gulf in his ears, but his mind knows that the pace of his breathing has not actually changed.

“Tell me,” Thranduil says, and his voice booms like thunder rolling over the plains. “Why did you and your folk three times try to attack my people at their merrymaking?”

Thorin’s vision swims, and the light of the torches glint off Thranduil’s hair and robes. He glows like a candle flame. The light beckons Thorin, and the figure consumes his world. It is the source of the warmth inside him, the light before him, and all clarity comes from it. He opens his mouth.

“ _Speak_ ,” the flame hisses, the tongues of heat snapping higher, racing across the ground so they dance just inches before Thorin.

“We…” Thorin begins. He sees in the heart of the fire the road that led the company from Beorn’s, his companions stretching out before him like a train of ants, becoming gradually less distinct as they traveled deeper into the darkness beneath the canopy. His brows draw together in confusion. He feels hunger like a phantom pain, thrumming through him with each pulse of the drug. Faces waver in his memory. His kin…his kin are among them, as are… others. But they would not, had not come to attack. He knew it, he had said so for suddenly the memory is rushing forward as if falling from a great height and he is in the court of his enemy, bound with thongs and amongst the rushing chaos and the burning in his veins there’s an island, like a rock jutting forth from a raging river. He has heard this question before, he has answered…correctly. No, he had not told the whole truth because…because there was some reason not to. But the remembered answer gives him somewhere to stand and he repeats it as the recollection returns to him. “We did not attack them, we came to beg, because…”

“Oh, not again,” the flame crackles. “If he says starving one more time… The truth this time! What were you doing in the forest?”

Thorin, or rather the burning creature trapped inside flesh and bindings, surrounded by crashing sounds and lights, stops. It is as if he has encountered a wall. He has _given_ the truth, and his confusion grinds the headlong rush to a halt.

A shiver runs through Thorin as he comes back to himself with a feeling like the twang of a broken harp string. It stings like one too, and he looks down to see his fingernails are digging into his palms. His hands have gone white and bloodless, nausea roils in his stomach. Thranduil stands before him, no longer a creature of living flame, but only a hated figure in silver. His eyes bore black into Thorin’s, impatience in the sour twist of his lips.

 _I have already given my answer_ , Thorin begins to say, and those will be his last under his own power. For behind them he can feel words building like water behind a dam, pressing against one another. It would be like scratching an itch to answer, to give his entire life’s story and the deepest hopes and fears of his heart that not even his kin knew to this traitor before him. Simple, without a second thought the words would tumble out and not stop until he was wrung out and hoarse. The realization sends a bolt of terror through him, but it doesn’t stop the need. He can’t even open his mouth to suck down a breath because that itch is growing to a pain, and relief would be so easy.

So he clenches his jaw until he thinks his teeth will crack, and though the words may whisper in his mouth he traps them, even as another wave of the drug washes through him and he wonders if he’ll weep from the need to speak.

Thranduil frowns. “ _Ai_ , the stubbornness of dwarves. And would you speak if I reminded you that the fate of your companions still lies within my control? Leaderless they wander, far off the path. Perhaps they seek my palace, for even without you they still may intend to do my people harm.”

It is certainly not Thanduil’s intent, but Thorin melts in relief at his words. Wandering off the path had its perils, but they are still alive. They had not been slain by the spiders, or by the treacherous elves. Alive means that there is hope, if he can but escape his bonds and Thranduil’s dungeon. He never thought he’d miss so much the faces of his kin, long so greatly for…

Thorin doubles over, the breath rushing out of him as if he had been sucker-punched. A frisson runs through every muscle and artery, and he is straining at the bonds. He needs to get out of here, but the need was like a living thing inside him, a beast without reason or self-preservation, pressing at his bonds regardless of how they cut into his flesh.

Thranduil draws back in alarm, and says something to the guards beside him, something Thorin hears distantly but cannot understand. He can see the company before him as if they are there in the flesh, and he somehow transported into the darkness of the wood by will alone. But pain is lancing through him from his bonds, his body rebelling with all its force to make the wish come true, even in the face of pain and reality.

Want. Want is the key to it, he is certain even as the Elvenking draws close again, studying him.

“If you wish them to live, you will answer the question,” Thranduil says and Thorin’s theory is confirmed as shudder races through him, his mind touching briefly on Thranduil’s words. Instead he bites his lip, the pain drawing him from the edge, but only for a moment.

That moment is enough. Thorin knows what he wants now, and there is blood on his teeth as he smiles at Thranduil and contemplates breaking free of his bonds, of wrapping hands rough from sword and hammer around that slender throat and crushing the life from him. But the chains hold him and will not let him free. He does not need to speak to desire Thranduil’s death, and Thranduil must see that death in his eyes for he straightens. Fire pulses through Thorin’s veins, and with it rage and triumph to have discovered the mechanism of Thranduil’s drug, twisting the desires of the victim so they align to their interrogator, or whatever suggestion is put to their helpless minds.

But he is no longer helpless. He is armed now, he can hold his secrets to his very grave if necessary. Thorin’s lips taste of salt and iron, and wishes only that it were not his own. It bolsters him like the steel that reinforces a broken blade, and he is himself again, able to outlast any number of hours and questions that this traitorous king may throw at him. There is displeasure in the downturned angle of Thranduil’s lips and without warning he turns back to the door, not sparing Thorin another glance.

“We will resume tomorrow, son of Thráin. Consider this another day lost, a day your companions may not have,” Thranduil says, gesturing to the guards. They close the door behind them, locking it. They leave Thorin in his chains, the drug still pulsing in his veins, triumph and blood turning to ashes in his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warnings** : This chapter contains mentions of suicidal thoughts and outright descriptions of a non-con scene. Please heed all warnings if you are effected by such things. This chapter is the first that matches the rating.

The next day, Thranduil administers the drug again to Thorin.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

Every day, in the moments of lucidity between the nightmares, Thorin scratches a tally mark into the wall with the edge of his manacle. He counts how many days a dwarf may go without food or water, how many had already passed when he was taken from the Company. 

Every day he asks Thranduil, “Will you help them?” 

The first day it is a challenge, and he throws it in the Elvenking's face. Thranduil's eyes flash with anger, pitiless, and he says coldly, “No.” 

The second day it is a demand. The Elvenking's answer does not change.

On the third day it is an entreaty, and it does not matter. He inhales the powder as it is forced down his lungs, and it is in his teeth, in his throat and mouth. He is spiraling again. Lost.

Three days pass this way. He holds onto his silence, teeth grinding, jaw tightened to the point of cracking, and waits it out. Tries not to think, ignores the questions as they are thrown at him.

Feels himself slipping.

* * *

Four days. They had starved for three when he was stolen. A week without food, without water too. Can a dwarf survive so long?

Can a hobbit?

The manacles are like brands around his wrists and he can barely swallow the food that is given to him. It is as dust in his mouth and he only consumes it to maintain strength, so that he might take his chance, wrestle his way past the impossibly strong elven guards. It is hopeless, and he knows it. Every bite brings up bile, guilt and shame. These moments of solitude are the better part of his day, and he waits in dread for the sound of soft footfalls coming up the winding corridor. The sound is like a saw across his nerves, but he hides it. He is a dwarf, his kind were made from stone, and he must become stone again if he is to survive this.

He is no longer sure he wishes to.

* * *

He flinches, once, at the sound of their approach. Stands as much as the manacles will allow. He wants to be on his feet when he faces the Elvenking. Thorin clasps his hands before him and squares his shoulders, challenging Thranduil with his gaze as he comes into view.

The iron gate creaks open, the dark haired guards enter before their king, flanking him. Thranduil takes his customary place across from Thorin, looks down at him.

“Will you help them?” Thorin says.

“No,” Thranduil replies, and the corner of his mouth twitches, amused, as if this is no more than the latest step in their dance. Thorin hates him for it, hates that he has become so much better at reading Thranduil’s moods.

He braces himself. Closes his eyes and taking a deep breath, hoping to hold off the onslaught for a few precious seconds, to stay the fires of the drug as they work through his system and tear down his defenses, leaving him with silence as his only shield.

“There is no need for that today,” Thranduil says. “I thought instead that we might talk.”

Thorin cracks open an eye, sees that Thranduil is sitting now, the guards having brought chairs with them this time. He frowns, puzzled, before locking up his expression again. One of the guards takes a second chair and sets it beside Thorin, across from Thranduil and within easy reach of his chains. Does not unlock them, but beckons for Thorin to sit as well.

“I will stand,” he growls, addressing Thranduil.

Thranduil inclines his head in acknowledgement and Thorin’s hackles are up. Why this sudden change? He would rather take the drug again, this uncertainty is worse than the fire. He will need to do more than react, he will have to think, and attempt to outmaneuver a canny opponent. It would be a challenge even if Thorin was in a place of strength, his thoughts not consumed with the seconds and minutes of the day. A week. They had been starving a week.

They might already be dead.

Despair rises in him, and he forces it aside, meets Thranduil’s gaze. Seated, Thranduil and he are on the same level, another reason not to accept the offered chair. Thorin crosses his arms across his chest, and settles back to wait.

“It has occurred to me how unseemly it is for two kings to converse with one another as we do,” Thranduil says. His words are slow, languorous as one who has all the time in the world and knows it. Thorin can already feel himself growing impatient. “After all, such methods of force as I have employed are of better use on foul things. Orcs and other servants of evil, who cannot be trusted to give testimony without weaving it through with lies. We two should be above such things. Employ the art of diplomacy, and leave such brutish measures behind.”

“It is not I who have employed these measures,” Thorin says, eyes narrowing.

“But it is within your power to end them at any point, if you will but tell me the truth,” Thranduil says. Thorin’s lips firm to a line. If this is to be the nature of the conversation, he sees no reason to treat it any differently than the drugging sessions. Thranduil sees this and settles back, places his hands on the arms of the chair, and reclines as if it were indeed a throne. Suddenly, Thorin no longer feels so steady. The power of the room has shifted and he is standing as a supplicant before Thranduil, but it is too late to take the seat.

He plants himself instead, shifting on his feet and striving for height he does not have, tilting up his chin. Thranduil arches an eyebrow, and appears to reconsider his argument. It is not a victory. Thorin knows his silence has given more information than he intended. One more reason to hate Elves: the thousands of years they have at their disposal to learn the nuances of mortal expressions, to toy with them upon a field so unbalanced as to be laughable. The gift of the Valar, who had set them at unquestionable heights above all other races, even above those who had been firstborn in truth.

“You might have ruled a great kingdom by now, had fate been kinder,” Thranduil says. “You may still make Ered Luin more than it is, a filthy little miner’s town. Should that day ever come, I would wish to grant you a gift.”

“I have no interest in your gifts,” Thorin growls.

“A trade, then,” Thranduil says. “I have been callous, offering you nothing in return for your information. I thought that I only bargained with thieves, and assassins. If I do in truth negotiate with a king, or a future one, it is only just that an exchange is made. I propose that I will teach you the art of kingship and, if you find the lessons useful, you shall give me what I ask for in return.”

“And if I do not?” Thorin says. _Teach_ him the art of kingship? His teeth grind and rage kindles in his belly. _Teach him?_ As if he were a strippling youth, as if he knew nothing of what it meant to lead his people in times of hardship? If he thought he could get away with it, Thorin would reach out then and there and strangle the life from Thranduil.

Then his eyes drift, downward, to Thranduil’s clasped hands. To the concealed fingertips that may even now hide the yellow powder. Fear quenches his anger, turns it to ash inside him. He feels as if he is turning to ash, to gray blankness that is the only way to hold on to his silence. The fire inside gutters.

“A king who will not accept a hand offered in friendship is worse than an orc, worse than a beast,” Thranduil says. “And you will be kept here as one.”

Thranduil stands, the hem of his robes pooling on the floor like quicksilver. “We will begin tomorrow, and you will be offered each in turn. To be treated as a king, or to be treated as a beast. We may continue as long as it takes for you to choose correctly. I have no doubt it will demand more than a single day, such is always the way with dwarves.”

Thranduil turns to leave, the two elves at his side snatching up the chairs and he stops, as ever he does when he prepares his parting shot. Thorin closes his eyes, wishes he could close his ears too, and waits.

“Some of your companions may yet live,” Thranduil says. “But I wonder… for how much longer?”

Thorin’s knuckles crack as he draws them into fists, feels his muscles tense to throw himself against the chains, to reach for Thranduil and tear him apart with his bare hands.

The fire dies. It would be a futile action, serving nothing.

He bows his head as their footsteps recede.

* * *

It begins again the next day, as promised. The guards open the door, Thranduil a silver flame to their dark-green shadows. He stands before Thorin, fingers pinched together and upraised, prepared to blow the fine powder into his face.

“Tell me which it will be, son of Thráin. Are you a king, or a beast?” Thranduil says.

“Better a beast than a king by _your_ measure,” Thorin retorts. He is prepared this time, inhaling deep so that he need not breathe for minutes after it is dispersed into the air.

The guards are prepared for this too. With a nod from Thranduil they surround Thorin, prying open his mouth, pinching his nose until he does so. He holds out, but there is only so much even a dwarf can manage and once again he is coughing and sputtering as the powder chokes him. Fine as flour, it coats his tongue and throat and he hacks to clear it, knowing it is already too late. Again the warmth steals over him and a haze descends over his mind, but he is ready. Thranduil’s form wavers in the air before him, crouching mockingly low to address him.

All throughout the night has had considered different strategies for evading the questions, and so now Thorin closes his ears, humming low at the back of his throat to block out Thranduil’s words. He builds walls in his mind, great masonry blocks falling into place, a city to dwell within, locked in turn within a mountain, dug far into the bedrock. He fills his ears with the clanging of picks and hammers. He lulls himself with visions of the Erebor, enclosing and defending himself within his home.

It does not take Thranduil long to catch on to his plan, but the moments stretch to what feel like hours in the thrumming echoes of the drug through his veins and heartbeat, and his technique fails when long fingers close around his chin and jerk his head upward.

“You wish to tell me why you were traveling through my forest,” Thranduil says.

Thorin is drawn up short, as the desire to please meets the walls of resistance. In his state they are literal walls, climbing to the sky in a solid mass that is one with the earth. The wall in his mind  _is_ Erebor, it is family, his nephews, and his sister Dís watching them depart from the gates of Ered Luin. It is Frerin lying in a pool of blood at Azanulbizar, and all his companions, and their fathers before them stretching back to Durin. It is Bilbo, who sacrificed everything for no other reason than to see Thorin and his people return home. He will not betray that trust any more than Erebor could fall.

“But Erebor did fall,” a sibilant whisper slithers around his ears, enters him and dances along his brain. Had he spoken aloud? “It was no match for the dragon.” And he can see the drug burning red in his veins, seeking his heart all the secrets kept their, and it is the burning red of Smaug tearing down the gates with his claws, the heat is dragon fire and the truth is waiting on his lips, just as Thorin had stood at the battlements, helplessly watching his city fall.

Thorin chokes on a gasp, clenching his eyes shut against the vision, as his home and refuge is torn apart before his eyes by the inexorable voice that demands more of him. He is alone, naked in the dark, and somewhere in the dark beyond wander his kin, and Bilbo. Dying, or perhaps already dead.

“Erebor is gone, forevermore beyond your reach. Unless that is what you seek now? Is that why you pass through my forest, lost son of a lost kingdom?”

Panic rises swift and sharp in Thorin’s heart to have already given away so much and he tries frantically divert. If Thranduil knows, he will stop them at any cost. If he believes Smaug is dead, as Thorin does, he will be the first to Erebor like a vulture alighting on a corpse. Want, desire, those were the impulses fanned by the drug, the impulses Thranduil relied upon for his answers. As ever, when there was fear in his heart, Thorin turned to rage to bolster him.

What does _he_ want? He wants Thranduil to be the one on his knees before him. He snarls against the drug, against the reality of Thranduil standing before him imperious and demanding, tugging at the heart of Thorin’s being for his answer. It will not end here. He will not spend the rest of his days as the plaything of an oathbreaker while his home is plundered.The drug is tearing at his brain, and it feels as if all wards against the savagery of his own heart have been worn away layer by layer with each dose. He is on the knife’s edge now, where every second is like a muffled scream, and each blink of his eyes threatens to drag him down. But he cannot trust himself, or the drug that flows through his blood and lungs. If he gives in will he go mad, or will he only be hypnotized, muttering plans to…he cannot even think the words, he must not.

But when he is successful it will be Thranduil kneeling before him. A king, he says? Well, let Thranduil be the first to admit that a king may fall, and oh how much farther they fall when they have so much more to lose. Let him be stripped of his crown and robes, let _him_ be bound with thongs and chained in a cell. His lessons on kingship will have more meaning when they are spoken by one who no longer has it, let him keep his smug certainty of his right to rule when he is naked and bound.

Heat races along Thorin’s skin, the fires of hatred which feel not so unlike the fires of lust. He can see the Elvenking bowed before him, his pale lips parted and begging for, what?  Freedom, for Thorin to help him regain something _he_ holds dear _._ Perhaps his son is lost somewhere in the woods, starving, and he begs Thorin’s aid. Yet that feels wrong in Thorin’s mind, it does not give him the bone-deep satisfaction he requires, and he bites his lip to keep himself from speaking even as he seizes his vision of Thranduil by the back of the head and closes his mouth around those lips, biting and violating him. He wants to feel anger, he wants this elf to feel as helpless as he does, but even that isn’t right. The drug pulses in his veins and he _wants_ and he _sees_ Thranduil gasp against him, his pale body bending like a bow against Thorin’s clothed one.

Somewhere, distantly, a voice not nearly as breathy and desperate as the Thranduil in his vision is complaining about something. But Thorin pays him no mind, he knows that he remains silent, for there is only the sound of his own breath through his nose, his lips are still sealed shut. But behind his eyes a white figure is clad only in bonds and lays stretched out on a stone floor beneath the mountain. Thranduil gives an unwilling twitch, his skin is like satin beneath Thorin’s hand.

“Son of Thráin…” a voice is saying in the waking world but Thorin is far away. He sees the body of Thranduil stretched before him, his hands bound behind him. He imagines his own hand tracing that pale flesh, free of manacles and bedecked with rings. He sees Thranduil as his prisoner before him, these desperate days in Mirkwood a distant memory. Erebor reclaimed, and vengeance had. His fingers skirt Thranduil’s inner thigh, drawing out his arousal and the Elvenking, a king no longer, keens a high-pitch and desperate sound.

Thorin’s heart goes cold within him, even as his blood is hot. He feels no pity for this wanton creature before him, who bends to his touch. He wants only to take from Thranduil what the elf had tried to take from him: his dignity and pride. He wants to wring hidden words and needy sounds from him. Thorin licked his lips against a mouth gone suddenly dry at the thought.

The drug captures his imaginings, plasters them in vivid colors behind his eyelids. He can feel his fingers enclosing Thranduil’s length, bringing him to hardness with rough strokes while elf writhes and keens beneath his touch. He can hear the elf wanting it, yet hating himself for giving in to so low a creature, a mere dwarf. Thranduil scrabbles for his dignity and cannot find it. He is a wrecked and wanting thing, desiring only Thorin’s touch. Yet he is aware, ever and throughout, of how far he has fallen. It is there in those icy blue eyes: self-loathing that burns with the same heat as his desire. He wants only to be plundered now, the only purpose of his life. Thorin indulges him, giving him the touch that has been withheld. Thranduil's body would be ready for it, this would not have been the first time that the elf panted beneath his touch. His hand slips lower, slicked with oil and enters Thranduil. The elf bucks, grinding into the ground, drawing Thorin’s fingers into him, begging for more  in slurred tones that have lost their arrogant precision long ago.

Thorin fingers him mercilessly, and it does not take long because at this point Thranduil is always ready for him, preparing himself in anticipation, wanting him, falling before him. He is begging now for Thorin’s cock, and Thorin’s lust rides the waves of the drug, burning hot enough to consume him. He is lost in visions of stretching Thranduil, of flipping him onto his stomach, stronger now than the waifish elf. His own broad hands would be dark against the pale white flesh of the elf’s hip. There would be little warning as he drove himself in, but Thranduil would moan with relief, and with shame, rocking himself back onto Thorin’s cock like the fallen creature he is. The elf wants this, it has all he has ever wanted as Thorin stabs his pleasure spot again and again, hardly taking a note even of his own desire, if it can be called that. Rather it is a dark satisfaction that curls in his gut, far more effective than anything so gentle as lust. It is victory. It is conquest, and it sets his body afire with a heat that consumes him, as the elf lays plundered beneath him, and he is close, he is--

There is a ringing slap and pain blossoms across Thorin’s face. He jerks free of the whirlwind and Thranduil is facing him, eyes puzzled. He is clothed and looming, and wears his disdain like a cloak. The vision melts and with it nausea rises in Thorin’s mouth, banishing all heat. Any effects it had on his body die in a blink and he recoils from Thranduil with revulsion.

“And where does your mind wander, dwarf? What paths does it walk while you ignore my questions?” Thranduil says. “Sleep and dreams will do nothing to aid your companions, nor will it stay my purpose.”

Sleep? How could that have been sleep? He is back in his cell, hands chained before him as he kneels, and perhaps that is the only reason they had not seen the effects of the drug upon him. He burns with a different fire now, with shame, and disgust that twists within him like a living thing.

Beneath it there is a new question, of whence the vision had come from, what flaw in his own metal had given rise to that desire? To destroy Thranduil, aye, that he would glory in if given the chance, were it not a short-sighted and suicidal prospect. But destroying him in other ways? That had never occurred. Not until now, when he knelt before the Elvenking and saw what tortures the elf would gleefully subject him to. Had this always been within him, or was this too the fault of Thranduil?

He has no answer, but glares up at the elf, silent as ever, fearing that speaking even a single word would release the torrent.

“Do you think on your companions?” Thranduil continues, accustomed now to Thorin’s silence and seeming not to care at all whether Thorin participates in the game. There is always something to draw him out again, that Thorin cannot resist even if he attempts to stop his ears. He dare not let his thoughts wander again, but feels his heart grow cold at the thought of the tortures he would visit upon Thranduil in return. He is cold to the depths of his soul, as if the fire within is replaced by ice and he is transforming into something other. Something he does not recognize, but that is crafted of hatred and helplessness. “Do you wonder after them? When last you saw them they lay within the webs of the spiders. Perhaps they are there still. What would you do now, if confronted by them? What would you tell them, son of Thráin?”

He can see them. As real as if they stood before him, Thorin can see the Company. Bodies dripping webs, faces pale in death, they watch him with accusation in their eyes. How else could they view him except with hatred, who is fed, if imprisoned? Who dreams of lying with the enemy responsible for their suffering? How could they not hate him, he who with every second under Thranduil's power threatens to confess the purpose of their mission and give away the keys to Erebor if only it means escaping this place? But he cannot give in, he must not. For them. 

Thranduil withdraws, looks down upon him. “We will cease with the drug for a day. Worthy or not, a lesson in the manners of a king will perhaps do you good, instead of wandering the paths of delirium as you seem to so enjoy. Rest and recover your sobriety. Tomorrow I expect to meet with Thorin, lord of Ered Luin, and not a mute beast,” Thranduil says. He leaves, and perhaps his mind is preoccupied with other matters for he takes no parting shot. 

Thorin would not have heard it in any case. Slowly, the world returns to him, but he needs no drug to see his kin, and his failure, laid out before him true as life itself.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My deepest apologies for the delay. I realized that this story needed a bridge chapter, which I had not yet written, and it took longer than I expected. Thank you for your patience, I hope you enjoy.

Ten days since he was taken. Thorin is listless as he considers this, Thranduil's voice a buzz at the edge of his hearing. It is the third day of these lessons, and Thorin has found that the hours pass more easily if he feigns attentiveness.

He is aware of this change in himself, just as he is aware that it means he is on the path to breaking. He is silent where he was once defiant, playing along with Thranduil's game if it means he will not be subjected to the punishment of the drug, or see again the depraved visions that haunted him under its influence. The thought makes Thorin sick, makes him furious.

He does nothing.

"This sullenness does not suit you, Thorin of Ered Luin," Thranduil remarks, and Thorin starts, pulls himself free of his drifting. It seems he must grow better at listening with half an ear, and that is a lesson on kingship that benefit him yet. The idea that he might gain anything of Thranduil, except his freedom, is like a dart beneath his skin. More irritating than painful, but slowly draining his life's energy nonetheless. "Have you heard ought of what I said? Or would you prefer to give me your thoughts on other, more pertinent matters?"

Thorin shivers, and raises his eyes to meet Thranduil's icy visage. Sullen. He has not been called thus since he was a child, scolded by his mother. Thranduil had been alive then. He no doubt would have seen Thorin grow from infancy in his periodic visits between the kingdoms of the Greenwood and Erebor.

Thranduil's first official sight of Thorin would have been before Thorin's own memory began, when he was presented at birth as the second in line for the throne. Thranduil would have been unchanged, thousands of years old, one for whom these past two hundred were only a blink. To Thranduil, even the most respected and venerable dwarf would appear no more than a child, as fleeting as Men. All the great works of dwarven hands, the many years spent learning the heights of skill in their craft, would be barely the extent of an elven apprenticeship. In what just world were such creatures allowed to walk amongst mortals? What creator would be so merciless as to place these beings side by side with those limited by death? Elves had come from their Undying Land across the sea, and Thorin wishes they would return there to trouble these shores no more. The thought of Thranduil taking himself and his ilk thence is a pleasant one, if utterly futile, but it gives Thorin a small enough flicker of pleasure to face the Elvenking, to add a faint smirk to his words. It feels like regaining himself, if only a small measure.

"Of course. In our own tongue we say, <I hope you die a death of flames,> on this matter” Thorin says, slipping briefly and spitefully into Khuzdûl. “It is well known amongst the dwarves that, as you say, a king must attempt to be fair and even handed with punishment and reward, with friends as well as enemies."

Thranduil regards him suspiciously, but he does not speak the dwarven language. None do, save the dwarves and the wizards. Gandalf, whom they call Tharkûn, and Saruman who was once a servant of Mahal. It is a petty jab on his part, yet he clings to any defiance he can manage to stop the humiliating, downward slide. It took fully a day after the last dose for the drug to leave his system, and all the while the world was hazy and unreal. Or perhaps it is only the dungeon itself, days of captivity with little movement playing havoc with his senses. It makes him feel on-edge, unbalanced, and for a dwarf there is little worse than losing the solid ground beneath them.

"Tell me, when you brought your nephews with you on this journey, taking them from their mother's home and casting them both into the wild world, did you apprise them of the risks?" Thranduil says. He tilts his head, glancing at Thorin out of the corner of his eye as he faces the door of the cell. "How will you explain to your sister, to your father's youngest and only daughter, that you have allowed her sons to die on your quest for vengeance? Or did she volunteer them, sacrificing her lambs to slaughter if it meant that the line of Durin may complete its final fall into ignominy? What will she do when she learns of their fate?”

“And what is their fate, son of Oropher?” Thorin says. His head is bowed and his voice a low growl, helpless rage flickers in his heart, rousing him from his stupor.

Thranduil regards Thorin, his expression impassive. “I should think no great wisdom is needed to guess the answer to your question. If they still wander the path, without food or water, then their fate is certain. My forest holds many dangers for the unwary and weak. Without aid, they would certainly perish.”

“Then let me go to them!” Thorin says, slamming against his chains, stopped short and glaring up at Thranduil. “Let me lead them thence and you will never hear from us again. Only let us pass!” That elven face remains impassive and Thorin feels his own expression slip as he confronts the true enormity of Thranduil’s indifference. He will let them die, and think no more on their deaths than he would of one of the great spiders. Thorin’s blood goes cold in his veins and he sees them, their pales faces veiled by webs and contorted in death. His nephews. Bilbo. His family and friends. Thorin’s voice cracks, the first break of what he now knows will be many, rolling out before him without end. But there was no other way, and no pride left to stop his headlong fall. “ _Please_. I—I beg you. Please help them.”

And Thranduil only tilts his head, his expression as cold and remote as the stars his people worship, and says, “A king does not beg.”

Thorin stares, his lips parted for further pleading. But he has no more pride, only shock. “And yet elves consider themselves fair? How- how can you hold to such delusions when you allow the helpless to die?”

“I see nothing helpless about twelve heavily armed dwarves of Durin’s Folk,” says Thranduil, but his gaze is intent now, those cold eyes fixed and studying Thorin’s expression for even the slightest betrayal.

The world stops. Thorin's breath freezes in his throat and he can barely gasp out, “Twelve? But the thirteenth--?” He cannot even bring himself to say the Halfling’s name. Not him, surely not. But dwarves are hardy, this he knows, and time is running out. Has run out. Has failed.

“There was no thirteenth member by the counting of my scouts,” says Thranduil, and something that may be puzzlement and may be sympathy flickers across his face and is gone. “If such a one ever existed, he was lost to the forest before we knew of him.”

Cold stone strikes Thorin’s knees and he doesn’t know when his strength fled him but he is kneeling. Fallen. “Lost?”

“There is no manner in which a member of your party could slip our notice. We have counted twelve. If thirteen there ever were, then he is no longer among the living,” Thranduil says. He appears troubled, but Thorin barely notes it. The room is tilting, and his breath is coming in shallow gasps.

It has begun. Of course it would be Bilbo first, barefoot and weak, huffing upon the mat as he welcomed Thorin into his home, his sword flashing in the fire’s light as he defended Thorin from Azog. Gone. His bones rotting far from the green hills he’d missed so dearly.  Thorin had sworn no oath to protect him, never guaranteeing Bilbo’s safety nor taking any responsibility for his fate. Yet all those words seemed haughty and weak now towards one who had defended him, and sworn to aid Thorin in reclaiming his home, though it gained Bilbo nothing and now had cost him all.

“There may yet be a few of them who still live,” Thranduil says, his voice a background murmur to the roar of Thorin’s thoughts. “Their lives are yours to save, if you will but speak freely. As king—”

“Shut up.”

Thorin glares at the pale elf before him with death in his eyes. It is not a death promised in retribution, it is not the fire that sent him jerking to the end of his chain, reaching for Thranduil’s throat.

No, it is a death that has taken up residence within him. It is the fragile veil of hope ripped away, so that Thranduil may see in Thorin’s eyes that there is nothing more within him but the empty pit from which no light may escape. What fire that once resided there is now gone, leaving no purpose in him but to hide what secrets remained to him.

Thranduil regards Thorin, his face expressionless. From within the pit of his own heart, Thorin wonders distantly if he will be forced to suffer the drug again, and finds he does not care. Silence has fallen within him and it is the silence of the grave. Let Thranduil have his games. There was naught within Thorin left to rise to the bait, and no doubt the Elvenking would only grow crueler, now that he’d taken a life.

Yet Thranduil stands, nodding to his guards. “Unlock his chains,” he says to the dark-haired elves that wait upon him. They do as bidden and Thorin does not move, or attempt to break their grip. It would be futile, in any case. “I grow weary of this farce.” Thranduil moves to take himself and his guards away with no further word when Thorin raises his head.

“No parting shot, _brother king_?” Thorin says, bile in his words. “Have you had your fill of gloating, knowing I have lost that which cannot be replaced?”

Ever does Thranduil keep his back turned when he throw his final barb at Thorin, to chew over during the night in the silence and isolation of the cavern. Yet this time Thranduil turns, wrapping his spindly fingers around the bars. He does not meet Thorin’s eye and there is something in his bearing, shoulders not so straight, his chin no longer tilted upward and aloof. For a moment he looks almost… sorrowful. He speaks in low tones, “I did not know your companions numbered thirteen.”

“As if the loss of a single life would matter to one who turned his back on thousands,” Thorin grates, biting off each word. Yet Thranduil does not bristle at his words, does not throw some twisted insult back in Thorin’s face. He only watches.

“I see my presence is an offense to you in your grief…”

“Your presence is always an offense to me.”

There was not even a flicker on Thranduil’s features. “I leave you to your rest then. Believe what you will of me, son of Thráin, but I take no pleasure in torment. We will attempt a new method of conversation on the morrow, and if the results are favorable then we may yet see you reunited with your companions.”

“But not all of them,” says Thorin. “Never again.”

“As you say,” Thranduil says, inclining his head in a gesture that would almost be respectful if Thorin did not know better. Thranduil signals his guards and Thorin does not watch him go as their soft footfalls disappear down the winding halls.

Thranduil’s words leave of a puzzle in their wake, questions of why the elf would feign sympathy over the news of Bilbo’s death when he had left the company to die of starvation in his forest. Thorin has no energy for such a line of thought. All knew of the falseness of elves, how lives mattered nothing to them. That they may steal and cheat, withholding promised payment and lying to gain alliances just so they may shatter them on a whim. Oathbreakers and kinslayers, treachery ran in their blood.

Thranduil’s strange actions do not warrant the time it takes to examine them. All Thorin knows now is that his purpose is solidified. He will not allow Bilbo’s death to be in vain, he will not expose Erebor to greedy elves who would march upon its empty halls to plunder them.

Yet even that resolve feel hollow in his breast. The chains no longer bind him to the wall, but Thorin finds he cannot move. It is as if his heart has been scraped free of the bloody cavern of his chest. He is cold now, as if he is turning to stone, and he finds that he welcomes the change. Stone is silent in its resignation, unflinching in the face of failure. Stone cannot feel pain, it knows no torment. It cannot spill secrets, it cannot betray faith given. Stone cannot be worn away by long years of isolation. It cannot be drugged, or beaten, or hurt. It cannot be left alone without hope. It cannot go mad. It cannot weep or rage. It cannot remember the smiles of its nephews, or the confidence that comes from a shield brother at its back, the assurance that comes from a wise counselor, the joy of companions come to support them. It cannot feel the loss of a small, brave creature that it had once held in its arms and begun to think that maybe, when this was over, that this one may hold him back.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would become stone, and nothing more would be stolen from him. Tomorrow he would be beyond betrayal, both given and taken. He would never love, or lose, or wish to scream. He would never again beat the walls with his fist, tasting blood in his mouth and rage in his heart, or feel such terrible grief that he could howl. Tomorrow.

Today, Thorin Oakenshield bows his head, alone in the darkness of his cell, and weeps.


	4. Chapter 4

Thorin does not jump or shout when Bilbo removes his ring, appearing at the entrance of his cell that lies hidden deep within Thranduil’s palace.

“Thorin, Thorin, it’s me!” Bilbo whispers.

Thorin does not look up. His dark hair falls around his face like a shadow, his wrists are manacled and sit clasped in his lap, and his shoulders are hunched. Bilbo stops, draws back because something terribly, _deeply_ wrong. Thorin moves his head, and Bilbo can feel his eyes burning into him. “Halfling. I should have known you too would be here, eventually.”

A chill like ice water pools in Bilbo’s belly. Thorin’s voice is low, deep, but it has lost all of its tone and strength. It falls flat and harsh on Bilbo’s ears, like the scrape of stone on stone.

“Eventually? You say that as if it were a simple matter to get here,” Bilbo jokes, but it is a feeble thing imbued with what feigned indignation he can muster. Thorin does not stir, and in shadows cast by the golden lanterns, it is impossible to read his face. Bilbo presses his hands to the bars, leaning through them as best he could, though there was no hope of slipping through. “Are you all right? Have they… hurt you?” He cannot find it within himself to think of elves in that way, and he shudders, but cannot banish from his mind the cold indifference in Thranduil’s eyes as he looks at the dwarves, as if seeing them as no more than vermin. And a small part of him thinks yes, that one would could summon the indifference, the superiority to do it, and with no more emotion than a farmer clearing his field of voles.

Thorin is silent at his question, and Bilbo’s fear mounts. He squints in the dark, but there no wounds visible on his body and Thorin does not seem the worse for wear, save for the fact his hair is lank and he’d been stripped of his armor and weapons. Finally Thorin speaks, “No, Thranduil has done me no new injury since I was taken.”

Bilbo frowns, for Thorin’s words are tricky and he can tell there is something more. “Even so, I would like to see for myself. How long are these chains? Can you make it to the bars?”

“They are not secured.” _For now_ rings unspoken in the air. Thorin’s voice is thick with something that Bilbo cannot identify but it makes his stomach churn.

Bilbo swallows. “Thorin, please. Come here.” He thinks Thorin will ignore him again, for he knows the set of his shoulders. It is from before, when Thorin and he barely spoke, and Thorin would gaze into the distance with memories of past wrongs like a veil across his face. What good was a hobbit against such things, especially one who was not welcome? Bilbo had looked away then, not wanting to intrude.

But after a moment Thorin shifts. His movements are slow, as if he is stone detaching from the stone. His steps are halting and there is an emptiness in them, there is no other way Bilbo can describe it, all the small motions have gone from him, as if movement consumes Thorin’s every thought and leaves space for nothing else. Bilbo reaches out his hands despite himself, his fingertips brushing Thorin’s arm as soon as he is in range, clenching the fabric of his shirt. Thorin does not resist, nor does he yield as Bilbo pulls him forward and wraps his arms around him, pressing his forehead to Thorin’s chest. The bars are cold, and he is careful not to pull Thorin too tightly against metal, but some tension Bilbo had not known he carried bleeds out the feeling Thorin’s heartbeat through his shirt, the warmth of his body a beacon against the dampness of the prison cell.  It is strange, for rarely before had Thorin gone so exposed, without his many layers of clothing and armor. A change, but for now a welcome one as it allows Bilbo to assure himself that this is indeed Thorin, and not some shade conjured by the Elvenking.

He lets out a sigh of relief, and loosens his grasp, though still keeps ahold of Thorin’s sleeves as if he may vanish. Thorin makes no move to return the gesture and Bilbo looks up, puzzled at this, and freezes as the chill of dread spreads and freezes him in horror.

Thorin’s eyes are dark and lightless, lacking all warmth and familiarity as he stands stiffly before Bilbo. It is not as he was when they first met at Bag End, for at least then there was amusement and curiosity mixed with his disdain. Now there is nothing. “Are you satisfied?” he says in that awful, flat tone and Bilbo fights a shudder that has nothing to do with the cold. He looks away from Thorin’s expressionless face and turns his attention back to his task, rolling back Thorin’s sleeves, and prodding at his ribs as best as he can through the bars. Thorin gives no sign of pain, and there are no visible wounds. Even the dark scabs that remained from his fight with Azog had shrunk and healed cleanly. Whatever has been broken, it is out of Bilbo’s sight.

“No,” Bilbo says, releasing him. “But it would help if you told me the truth.”

Thorin withdraws his hands, pulling the cuffs of his shirt down to the wrist and drawing the strings at the nape of the shirt tight before allowing his arms to fall loosely at his side. “There is nothing wrong with my health. In that at least, Thranduil has been… consistent.”

“I’m not sure what kind of fool you take me for, but anyone with eyes can see it isn’t the whole truth. Please, let me help,” he reaches for Thorin’s hand but the dwarf pulls back, and that sense of dread returns stronger than ever.

“You presume too much, Halfling,” Thorin growls, and it is the first emotion Bilbo has heard from him and it is hard, brittle and jagged as broken blade.

“You know, amongst my people ‘Halfling’ is considered an insult,” he says, and part of him knows it is the exact wrong tactic to take with Thorin Oakenshield, who has a stubborn streak a mile wide. To cross it when he was already angered may be the most foolhardy thing Bilbo had ever done. But another part was desperate to see that anger, anything familiar, in Thorin’s eyes even if meant drawing his ire. “And presume? My word, what do you take me for? I’ll remind you, Thorin Oakenshield, that you may be royalty but you are not _my_ royalty.”

“I am your employer,” Thorin snaps.

“ _Employer_?” Bilbo chokes, stunned, as anger and hurt flash hot. He sputters, then he stops, and swallows it back. This was hardly the time for a lover’s spat, or whatever he wanted to call what existed between the two of them, and this was most emphatically _not_ the time to worry about that. Nevermind that it would be quite unfair to hold anything Thorin says against him when he’s been locked in a prison cell for two weeks, and there was decidedly more that Thorin wasn’t telling him.

Bilbo keeps his tone light and says in a cooler voice, “Indeed, well, I’d say you’ve received a good bargain for the money, since I don’t recall saving the lives of you and your kin from trolls, spiders, and goodness I suppose we’re on _elves_ now aren’t we, being on the list of my responsibilities. But then, it’s only fair, as you’ve saved my life a fair few times yourself. Even if that is balanced by the fact I wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place if not for you.” He punctuates the sentence with an arched eyebrow. Thorin must know he can hardly blame him for all the daft situations that have arisen on the road to Erebor, and that Bilbo was middle-aged gentlehobbit quite able to make decisions for himself as far as coming in the first place. But Bilbo’s grin freezes when Thorin does not react. If anything he goes pale, as if Bilbo had plunged a dagger into his heart, rather than told an admittedly poor joke.

“So you would taunt me with this?” Thorin snarls. “It isn’t enough that I’ve lost my kin and companions, you would use _that_ face to remind me of failures?” His voice cracks on the last word. Bilbo’s mouth works and he unconsciously pressed a hand to his cheek. How in the world was his _face_ to blame for all of this?

“I…Oh for goodness sake, Thorin, you haven’t failed, leastways I don’t blame you!” Bilbo says. “I don’t know what’s going on, but this is hardly the time for self-pity. Give me a bit of time and I’ll see if I can get all of you out of here, but first you’ll have to tell me…”

“I will tell you _nothing_ ,” Thorin snarls, with such venom that Bilbo takes a step backwards. “I would kill you with my bare hands for letting them die in your forest, but for this, _this_? Using _his face_ , for giving me hope that they’re…” Thorin’s voice chokes off, too overwhelmed for a moment to speak. “I will not defile their memories by giving in to their murderer.”

 _Murderer_. Bilbo freezes, his mouth open with shock at Thorin’s fury. But at the back of his mind a little wheel was turning, finding the odd notes in what Thorin had said. _His_ forest? Something was beginning to take shape in Bilbo’s mind, something he had been missing. Could it be that Thorin…

He hears the sound of soft footfalls in the tunnel.

Bilbo starts and looks in panic at Thorin, but it is not shared. The tunnel is narrow and he is not sure he can make it past the elves without detection. But there is no choice. The ring leaps to his fingers as if summoned by his terror, but he stops. Thorin is glaring at him; his face pale with fury in the dull glow. There is no fear in his eyes, he does not start at the sound or show any trace of pity or concern for Bilbo’s plight.

“Blast,” Bilbo curses. “Thorin, I don’t understand what you’re talking about, but they _are_ alive, all of them, but imprisoned in the lower dungeons. I’ll explain everything as soon as I can.” He cannot wait a moment longer and slips away from the door. If Bilbo had thought Thorin would be surprised to see him vanish, he is once again baffled and disappointed. Thorin only stares at the spot where he had been, directly at Bilbo, fury darkening his brow.

There is no time to contemplate this, or demand answers, as the source of the footsteps comes into view. Bilbo throws himself against the wall and it is all he can do then not to curse again as the bramble-crown of Thranduil comes into view. He is flanked by two guards, ones Bilbo does not recognize, for they are not the Elvenking’s son or captain of the guard. They have the dark hair of the Moriquendi, and trail their king like shadows.

At the sight of the elves, Thorin draws back from the bars, pulling himself to his full height and turning his glare to Thranduil. Even with his hands are cuffed before him he is every inch a king, and yet not the king Bilbo knew. It is as if the fire within Thorin has been banked, and only cold ash remains. Bilbo had not realized how much the company gave Thorin life, until he saw him thus bereft of them.

Thranduil steps forward, sinuous, graceful and utterly alien, to stand before Thorin. He towers over Thorin and they are arrayed before each other, the silver sheen of Thranduil’s robes contrasts with Thorin’s dark rags and yet they do not clash. If anything they seem to fit together like this, the king with everything and the king who has lost it all.

No, that’s not true, Bilbo reminds himself with a shake of his head. Thorin and the others will reclaim their home, their loss was temporary. It is hard to remember that as Thorin glares up at Thranduil, trapped and alone, regal yet resigned, without even his inner fire for comfort. From all his angry words against the elves over the course of their journey, Bilbo expected Thorin to be burning with rage when meeting the source of that hate. Yet he is silent, contained, meek. He lowers his eyes.

Bilbo had never thought to see Thorin humbled, and finds he hates the sight with every fiber of his being.

“No begging this time, son of Thrain?” Thranduil asks, and his tone might be pleasant but to Bilbo it only sounds mocking. There is a pang in his jaw for he is grinding his teeth with the effort not to throw himself between the Elvenking and Thorin.

“A king does not beg,” Thorin responds and there is something rote about it, as if he is repeating an old lesson.

Thranduil is silent for a moment, then smiles thin and sharp. “Good. You remember yourself. Then are you ready to answer the questions of your brother king?”

Thorin goes silent, his eyes opaque. Yet just for a moment Bilbo saw a glint of cold anger there like the shine of steel, and is fiercely glad for it.

Thranduil sighs and says, “Very well.” He nods to his guards and steps away from the gate. A tremor runs through Thorin and change comes over him. He plants himself, bracing his body as if he could become stone. His hands flex within their bonds.

Bilbo’s attention is drawn to the jangle of keys as the guard produces a ring of twisted and fluted metal that resemble the kind of keys he knows only in function, being utterly strange in appearance. He notes them and tucks the information away for later use, as the door swings open. Thorin is moving before Bilbo can blink, and is already past the door of his prison. Yet the elves are somehow impossibly faster, and Thorin is caught by a guard, who seizes him by the shoulders and, with no more difficulty than an adult corralling a child, drives him back into the prison, his long white fingers an iron grip around Thorin’s forearms. Bilbo remembers with dismay that he had not been able to check for bruises beneath Thorin’s shirt. There is no violence or excess of force, and somehow that makes it worse as without a hairsbreadth of extra effort the elven guard pushes Thorin to the wall, and then to his knees beside an iron ring embedded there. Thorin does not flail or struggle, but the muscles in his neck and shoulders stand out from the strain, while the elf that holds him does not even flinch.

The second guard come in then, and takes the chains attached to the manacles at Thorin’s wrists and ankles and loops them through the iron ring, securing them with a heavy lock. Only then does the first elf release Thorin, and the chain is too short for him to rise. Still he makes one attempt, tugging once at the manacles, but they do not give and Thorin subsides. He settles back to his knees, glaring from beneath his brow as Thranduil enters his cell.

Bilbo’s breath catches. The hallway is clear. Focused as they are on Thorin, the elves may not hear him if he were to make his escape. The others are waiting for news of their leader, and Bilbo still does not know the Elvenking’s halls well enough to begin planning their escape. But Thranduil is now looming over Thorin, flanked by his guards, and Bilbo has never seen Thorin so helpless. Even when bound by trolls, or dazed on the ground before Azog, there had been defiance in the set of his shoulders and the grip of his hand around the hilt of Orcrist. Yet here there is no resistance here, only stoic anticipation, as one who has given themselves up to their fate. Bilbo’s gut twists, and he cannot bear it, cannot bear to see Thorin like this, and he is moving before his mind can catch up to his feet.

Though the gate, and into Thorin’s cell.

He makes no sound, and for all their superior senses elves are still Big Folk and they hear nothing nor take notice of the breath of air from Bilbo’s passing as he presses himself against wall of the cell. There is a small alcove at the far end of the cell, a place where the elves are certain not to trip over him, and Bilbo edges along the wall to that spot, curling in on himself to be as small as possible once he’s there. The Baggins side balks at this, chastises him for doing something so foolish, and yet he can’t leave Thorin here to face this alone, even if he cannot lend aid, even if it means he will trapped here as well.

Thranduil is watching Thorin and Bilbo holds his breath, not sure if he will be able to hold himself back if Thranduil were to strike Thorin. Bilbo’s Took side is well in command, the same part of him that leapt in front of a murderous orc to save Thorin’s life. He still breaks into a cold sweat just thinking of it, but whatever insanity possessed him then has returned and he does not regret it.

But Thranduil makes no movement and the silence stretches. Finally he turns his head to the side, and in as casual a voice as one may discuss the weather says, “Word has come to me of the death of Thrain, son of Thrór. I confess that I had little interest in his fate, knowing as others did how he was driven mad by the battle of Nanduhirion. He was found imprisoned, they say, gone so far into his madness he knew not his own name. Considering how many years had passed since he entered my Greenwood and there went missing, it is reasonable to assume he had languished in those chains for years.”

“You knew this, and yet you did nothing?” Thorin says, his voice raw and hoarse. He had been staring blank-eyed at the floor as Thranduil spoke, and Bilbo would have been cheered to see the life return to his eyes and with it something of his old anger, if not for the terrible grief in his voice.

“It was not my responsibility to do so, _son_ of Thrain. Tell me, where were you? If you always leave it to others to save your kin, then it is no wonder you lost so many to Smaug,” says Thranduil

Thorin’s head jerks up, his face white. “We would not have suffered such losses if you had not foresworn your oath aid us.”                                                                                                                                

“Again you blame others when the fault lies with you.” Thranduil did not raise his voice, for all the venom of his words his calm did not waver, and he spoke as if instructing a child. “Who stood idly by while the greed of Thrór consumed him? Ever he delved deeper, seeking riches beyond what any mortal should know. You feigned surprise, yet well you knew the risk that a dragon may hearken to the whisper of the Arkenstone. This you knew, and yet _you_ did nothing. The calamity the house of Durin so richly deserved fell upon your heads, and the heads of your people, yet you accept no responsibility. Instead you blame those who were leagues away for not saving you. The alliance demanded we aid each other against outside foes, son of Thrain, not from ourselves.”

Thorin lowers his gaze, and Bilbo thinks he must, _must_ , be gathering himself for an outburst. He would not accept such words from his own kin, let alone one he hated with such passion. Bilbo held his breath, waiting for Thorin to rouse himself, to pull at his chains and cast his rage in Thranduil’s impassive face.

“I know.” The breath went out of Thorin and his chin sank to his chest. He closes his eyes, and anguish twists his face.

“You have always known,” Thranduil corrects. “Yet you sought to shift the blame to others, to spare your heart the burden. Wherever you turned you would voice your complaint, that it was the elves who betrayed Erebor, that we were the ones at fault. And now you are here, in my woods with a band of your closest kin and followers. You seek retribution against us because you will not look inward to your own error. How far the house of Durin has fallen, that you have become assassins and thieves.”

“Lies!” Thorin snarls.

“Then tell me why you are here!” Thranduil snaps and he has moved with the speed of striking snake, coming face to face with Thorin.

“That is my business alone,” Thorin retorts.

“Not yours alone, for you have companions with you. Perhaps if you will not tell, one of them will,” says Thranduil, pulling away from Thorin.

“My companions…my family, are dead,” Thorin says and the terrible, raw grief returns. “For you left them to face the demons of your forest, and by now they are surely beyond your reach and any in this world. And this, this crime does lie on your head, Thranduil. They were helpless, and you did nothing.When aid would have cost you nothing, though releasing me to save them myself would have done you no harm, though I _begged_ …”

“Your companions are not dead,” Thranduil cuts him off. “My people did as you requested, and now they too lay within my cells, and there they will remain until you tell me your true purpose here.”

“Even if what you say is true, then they would never forgive me for revealing it,” Thorin says.

Thranduil steps back, his expression hardening. Without a word, he points with one hand down the corridor and makes a gesture as if beckoning. Bilbo nearly starts from his hiding place as he hears, unmistakably, the voices of Fíli and Kíli.

_“Thorin! We’re here!”_

_“Let us go! Thorin, Thorin are you here? Did they take you too? Say something if you can hear us!”_

_“Uncle…!”_

Thranduil flicks his wrist and the voices cut off. Bilbo knew those words, for Fíli and Kíli had howled them as they were dragged down the corridors to their separate cells, straining to look into whichever cell contained their missing uncle.

“As I said, they are here, and their lives hang upon your choice,” says Thranduil. Thorin had gone pale at the sound of their voices.

“This changes nothing, save now I know that you have no qualms against using visions of the dead to twist others to your purpose. I already know of your witchcraft, how you thought to use a vision of the Halfling to feed your schemes. Compared to that, the mere echo of my kins’ voices is only an insult.”

Bilbo jerks forward and only manages to clamp a hand over his mouth at the last moment. Fool! Thranduil had not known Bilbo was in the party, and now Thorin had gone and blabbed his presence for all to hear! They’d be looking for him now, wondering where he was, wondering…The realization hits him like a slap across the face.

Thorin had thought he was dead, and that the sight of Bilbo was only a vision conjured to make him confess his purpose in Mirkwood. Was that why he had looked at Bilbo with such disdain, why he had chosen his words so carefully? Bilbo’s heart twists at thought. Had Thorin had only seen him as another trick, another enemy trap waiting to spring?

“Halfling? Even were it within my power, why would I try to persuade you with a vision of one of the _periannath?_ ” Thranduil says, and were Bilbo not frightened anew at the prospect of discovery he might have taken more pleasure in Thranduil’s confusion. Thorin eyes widened minutely and he tightened his lips to keep any more words from spilling out. “But once again you overestimate not only my power but my wickedness. My army alone would not have been enough to stop Smaug, and I am no Necromancer able to summon the spirits of the dead. What power I have lies within these halls and this forest. If I am able to conjure the voices of your kin, it is only because I have heard them this very morning and the walls remember their words. Believe me or do not as you will, but know their fate lies, as ever, with you.”

Bilbo sees it then, Thorin’s eyes flicking to the door. It is quick, almost invisible but even so Bilbo is not sure if Thranduil saw it.

“Give me proof then, that they are all alive,” Thorin demands. “I want to see them, all of them. If you do, I will consider your question.”

“I have no interest in parading each and every one of your company before you. You’re closest kin I will allow. Let them tell you the truth of what they know,” Thranduil says. “I will expect you to be in a more cooperative mood afterward. Remember, my time is much greater than yours, but there are other ways.”

Thorin blanches at this and there is fear, real fear in his eyes as Thranduil nods to his guards and sweeps from the cell. Thorin’s chains are released but his legs are cramped from the time on the floor and the chains must be untied though they are now unlocked. The gate closes behind them, with Bilbo still inside.

“Oakenshield they call you, yet you are still your father’s son,” Thranduil says, stopping at the gate. “They say madness runs in your line, and if you are seeing visions after only two weeks here then maybe it is true. Consider it, Thorin son of Thrain, and consider this: it would be a shame if the line of Durin developed a new tradition, that of dying mad and alone in dungeons. Think on this, and the many years that lay before your nephews.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading thus far! I know this is a bit of an odd story, so any thoughts from you, dear reader, would be very much welcome.


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